The Basildon Manor House Mystery
by janeeyrefan
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is called out of retirement by a rather entrancing lady by the name of Evelyn Bryce. Her father has been murdered, and her and her mother have been targetted. Then her mother dies. But Sherlock isn't acting his usual, aloof self.
1. Humble Beginnings

**The Basildon Manor house Mystery**

I don't think there ever was a more trying year for my friend Mister Sherlock Holmes, than the year 1908. The outcome of the Basildon Manor house mystery, weighs, I am sure, very heavily upon my companions mind. Of course, that particular year had already seen the Murder at Plymouth mystery, to which Holmes had greatly assisted the constabulary and Scotland Yard.

Holmes, had, of course already retired to the Sussex downs, and invested in bee keeping. 1901 had seen the death of Queen Victoria, and the patriotic V.R. on our Baker Street walls was not a sign of patriotism, but memorial. Indeed, I could not pass it without smiling to myself. What thoughts were flying through my friend's cold, calculating mind at that time?

But back to the present day.

In late January of the said year, there came to be a rather entrancing lady to my Baker Street quarters. She had sent her card up with Mrs Hudson. It read as follows:

Miss Evelyn Bryce,

Teacher of music and French,

Basildon.

It had been publicly acknowledged that Holmes had retired to the country, so the visit was somewhat surprising.

Presently, the door swung open, and Mrs Hudson entered, followed by a young women of about five - and - thirty, (she was actually, as was revealed at a later date, seven – and – forty). I say young, for, to me, at four – and – fifty years of age, five – and – thirty was young. Miss Bryce was very visibly distressed. Indeed, as soon as the soft click of Mrs Hudson closing the door behind her, she sank into a chair, covered her worryingly pale face with her trembling hands, and groaned, with the manner of one whose life is at its lowest ebb.

"May I help you, Miss Bryce?" I applied my friend's methods of observation to the lady, and could find nothing save the fact that she had recently been a passenger in a dog cart. The way mud was spattered across her left sleeve showed this. This fine lady slowly lifted up her head from her hands, and apologised profusely.

"I am so very sorry, Doctor, but my nerves have been sorely tried of late."

"Think nothing of it, my dear. Now, to matters of business (not that it is my intention to be brisk, but time is moving swiftly on, and there is somewhere I need to be at five)"

"I do apologise Doctor. The matter stands thus. I am a teacher of Music and French, as my card so rightfully says, and I reside at Basildon. My parents are Susan and Edward Bryce. I live on my own in a little cottage near them. Two days ago, I received a summons to the village of Pitsea. I was quite used to summons' by parents wishing their children to learn my specialist subjects, so it was no great surprise to learn I was wanted. I travelled there the very same day, and was in Pitsea by seven post meridian. I was met by my future employers housekeeper; Mrs Delaney. I travelled by horse and trap to the manor house, and there I met Mr Blackwood. He wanted his eleven year old daughter

To learn to sing and play the harpsichord, said he, and was willing to pay extravagantly if I did it well. He and I were talking over trivial matters of business, when a servant knocked and entered, bearing a telegram.

He excused himself for a moment to peruse the said document. All was silent for a few moments, until he snorted in indignation, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. Mr Blackwood threw the letter into the roaring fire. At once, his manner changed, from quiet and civil, to fearful and dangerous.

He paced about his drawing room, trying to quail his rising temper. I am certainly not ashamed to admit I was frightened, Doctor, very. He stared out of the latticed windows, at the rain that had very recently started to fall. It beat against the counterpane, with the rhythm of African drums. He clenched his fist in ire, then, slowly, as he was calming down, released it.

'Miss Bryce' remarked he, 'I believe you shall have to stay the night. The rain pounds fiercely against the glass, it would be unforgivable and injudicious to send you home in such inclement conditions.' He said all this in such a leering manner, and I couldn't help but worry."

At this point, I took out my pocket watch, to check the hour. It was nearing four, and in order to be on time for my previous engagement, I had to leave at half past. Miss Bryce noticed, and pressed on.

Well, Doctor, to narrow a long story to short, I spent the night in the guest room. I am a very light sleeper, and the rumbling thunder kept me awake, and during the night there was a cry of 'Murder1'. Suffice to say, I slipped out that manor house, and rushed home, where my parents housekeeper was waiting. She was not in the habit of visiting, especially at three in the morning. I had passed a so far strange and frightening night, and my nerves were sorely shaken.

'Mary! What the deuce are you doing here?!' I inquired.

'Miss,' she articulated, by way of explanation 'Your father. Come quickly, there is no time to lose!' I fled to my parent's house, but alas, it was too late. He had died. The police say his death was wilful murder."

Here, Miss Bryce's voice rose, from barely audible whisper, to frantic near shouting.

"The constabulary can find no motive, nor the murderer. I so very desperately need your friend Sherlock Holmes' advice." Here, she collapsed into tears, her shoulders shaking, as heart wrenching sobs claimed her. I passed her my handkerchief, and poured a glass of brandy from the sideboard.

"Come now, Miss Bryce." I desperately tried to console the frantic lady. Indeed, the use of her name seemed to calm her, for the sobs dwindled into a soft moaning. She took a sip of the brandy, and passed the handkerchief over her face. She became quite herself again.

"Of course, it is well known that Mr Holmes is retired from detective work, but I beg of you to appeal to him fro me. I simply can't go on until I have found my father's killer. Please, Doctor."

There was something about this lady that held me in rapture. Her dark, glossy hair shone in the light, and her eyes were a most peculiar tint of emerald green. There was something in the way she spoke, too, her air demanded attention. Though Holmes was retired, I was quite sure he would make an exception for this lady.

"I can but try, Miss Bryce. I shall certainly let you know by way of telegram if my friend agrees to help you."

"I am currently residing at the Langham hotel. I do not wish to return home until I know Mr Holmes' reply."

"Of course, of course." I verbalized, ushering her out.

I watched her enter a hansom, her elegance and sophistication evident.

The cab pulled away, and I despatched a telegram to Sussex. I went out that night with a heavy heart, a rain cloud hanging over my head. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when my friend agreed to help this young lady, surprised and joyful. I sent a note to Miss Bryce, and received a happy reply. Well, as happy as one could be considering one's father has been murdered.

Holmes arrived a few days after his telegram. I received him with a lightening of the heart; I knew Miss Bryce's troubles were as good as over.

"You will see her? I can assure you, Holmes, she is the most exquisite thing alive."

My friend raised an eyebrow.

"Rather strong words for a widower such as yourself, Watson." Remarked he, stuffing his pipe with the shag tobacco from the Persian slipper, and lighting it.

"Have a cigarette, Watson, for old time's sake," he threw me his cigarette case, and the matchbox. He looked out the window, puffing on his pipe.

"Watson, is this your so called 'exquisite' lady friend?" He beckoned me over, and pointed downwards, to the street. I could see the usual bustling crowds, and then, emerging from a cab, was Miss Bryce.

"To be sure. But how on earth did you know?" As ever, his powers of deduction amazed and astonished me.

"You have known me for how many years now?"

"To be quite frank, Holmes, I have lost count, many of them have merged together. Twenty years at least."

"And you have yet to learn my methods. It was frightfully simple, Watson. She alighted from the carriage, when she happened to glance up at the window. Upon seeing me, a shadow of a smile flitted across her face, illuminating her pleasing lineaments. That is her knock on the door, I perceive."

No sooner had he said that, than Mrs Hudson showed her in. She snatched a glimpse of Holmes, who was sitting, cross – legged like a Turk, on the sofa, his hands, clasped together, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"You came!" Cried she. "I didn't think you would agree to come!" she sank into the chair my friend proffered.

"Miss Bryce, start at the beginning, and omit no detail." Holmes remained as cold, and as calculating as ever, a stranger to softer emotions. Miss Bryce was somewhat more tranquil than the last time I had conversed with her, indeed, there was no sobbing this time round. I was barely aware of her speaking; I was lost in those mesmerising jade eyes. I was jolted back to reality when she had ended her narrative, and Holmes reclined languidly on the chaise lounge, closing his eyes, and thinking.

"Where was your mother during this unhappy episode?" He solicited the question without a shred of sympathy.

"Visiting relatives in Chelmsford."

"You seem to be missing one crucial element, Miss Bryce, what of the letter you received this morning?"

She gave a start, and pulled an envelope from within her shawl.

"You are right; there is no point in denying it. My only thought was to not inconvenience you with this apparent hoax."

My friend perused it, his brows knotted gravely. After a while, his creased forehead smoothed itself out.

"It is as I suspected," began he. "Mere fabrication designed to scare you, Miss Bryce. Might I ask when you received it?"

Miss Bryce opened her mouth to speak, but abruptly closed it again when Holmes rather bluntly cut in-

" post mark. A man's writing. Watson, what can you make of it?" Holmes passed it to me. It was a common enough paper, at eight pence a packet. It had no address, or a signature. Nor was it dated. It ran thus;

Miss Bryce,

The attention of Mister Sherlock Holmes was quite un-needed. We can safely say you should fear for your life.

"A middle-aged well to do man wrote this, Holmes. No more can I make out."

"Excellent, Watson. He wrote it in a hurry; see how the ink in the last few words has smudged?" Holmes pointed to it. "But who are these other people he refers to, that is my query, though." Holmes shook his head, clearing it. "Miss Bryce, return home. There is nothing to fear. Let me know of any new developments."

After Miss Bryce had left, Holmes reclined in his chair, and lit another pipe.

"This proves to be an interesting case." Said he medatively.

"You honestly think the note was designed merely to intimidate Miss Bryce?"

"For perhaps the first, and I hope the last time, I really don't have the foggiest. I certainly hope so, but my suspicions lie elsewhere."

I secretly worried that Miss Bryce was in some sort of danger, but how could I convey to Holmes my fears? He would merely accuse me of getting involved at a personal level, unlike his indifferent, business like manner. Without warning, Holmes leapt from the sofa with the strength and vitality of a much younger man.

"I think a visit to Mycroft is long overdue," remarked he. He left soon after, and I was left on my own. The rest of the day was spent in perusing a novel, but my troubled mind could seek no solace from the drivel it contained.

The next few days passed without incident, Holmes had been working on the case from within London, and, as per usual, kept, on the whole, very secretive. He had received a telegram in the morning post, but he had left too early to catch it being delivered. I could not bear to stay confined in Baker Street, so I took a walk. I visited the book shop on the corner, and purchased a few articles. I then took a turn about the park. It was mightily refreshing, and I returned home a tad drowsy, indeed, the fresh air and exercise had tired me greatly.

Upon my return, I noticed an old lady sitting by the fire, warming her hands. She was a quiet old thing, and explained she was replying to an advertisement in the paper, and was waiting to speak with a Mrs Evans. I was far used to Holmes' working under an alias, and installed myself on the sofa, and hummed a non-existent tune under my breath. I chanced a glance at the old lady. She was, by the looks of it, a seamstress. A working class citizen. She wore a bonnet, and kept her shawl wrapped tightly around her, despite the roaring fire Mrs Hudson had so thoughtfully prepared for my return. I stood, and reached for the newspaper, when-

"Watson, you have not even condescended to wish me good evening."

I gave a start, and whipped around. Indeed, as I had shrewdly suspected, the old lady was none other than Holmes himself. I feigned shock, and laughed.

"The stage missed out on a gifted thespian, Holmes."

"Why, thank you." Said he, bowing dramatically. This was the true Holmes, even if he chose not to accept it. He stood straight, back to his usual calculable self, as impassive as ever. There were times such as this, which showed me passing glimpses of the softer emotions he was wont to disguise.

"You received a telegram in the morning post, Holmes." I passed it to him, and he opened it. He scanned the text, a frown deepening as he did so.

"Come, Watson, we must go to Basildon immediately!"

I had never seen Holmes as agitated as he was then. I could only presume the letter was to blame, and I could but guess as to its contents. Holmes' sense of urgency told me that something was terribly wrong. I dimly recalled that Miss Bryce resided in Basildon. Necessity compelled me to be useful. I leafed through the train timetable.

"We are in luck, Holmes. We have missed all trains but one, but we had better hurry, it leaves in a half hour from Charing Cross station. Holmes threw me my coat, and before I knew it, and before Holmes had bothered to explain, we were on our way to Basildon. I was far used to Holmes' secretive nature, and did not pursue what he didn't begin. I knew Holmes would confide in me in due time. Besides, I was accustomed to accustomed with exercising my patience. I was familiar with my friend's eccentric ways, and sat in silence.

"Watson, you must be curious. I have offered you no explanation."

"Indeed, Holmes, I wonder why we are travelling to Basildon."

My companion said nothing, but passed me the letter, and bade me read it aloud. The writing was an untidy scrawl, although it looked like it was usually neat, written in a hurry, and with some great emotion.

"Dear Mr Holmes,

The past few days have an upheaval for me, and you did instruct me to write if anything was to happen. My mother had returned home, and was sent a threat by the unknown assassins. What a fool I have been! I told her that you thought there was nothing to worry, so instead of hiding, she planned the funeral. She was brutally murdered just like my father. I have received another threat in the mail. Now, I fear for my life. The constabulary have reached no conclusion, and say that they would be much obliged if you were to lend them a hand, as it were. Your help would be muchly appreciated.

Your's sincerely,

Evelyn Bryce."

I knew this spelt danger. Indeed, my heart raced and beat against my chest most unpleasantly at the thought of anthing ill happening to Miss Bryce. It was not as if I had any romantic attachment for thte lady, it was more a fondness, a 'brotherly' love, if you will.

"Holmes," I began, "What do you make of it all?"

"From what I can gather, Watson, which, I am afraid to say, isn't a great deal, there is some sort of criminal mob attempting to rid society of the Bryce family, whilst also intimidating them. I am not close, however, to who is behind it all."

The rest of the journey was silent, broking only by the rattle of the train on the tracks. For me, the long wait I had to endure was agonising. It tore my strong nerves to shreds. I knew not the danger that lay ahead, nor the heart ache.

We alighted from the train some hours later, to the relief of my heavy heart. Holmes waved a cab, and gave the driver directions.

"I have a few leads, Watson, which I hope to throw light upon." Said he.

"I just worry for Miss Bryce's safety," I admitted.

"You should apply yourself as I do Watson, at a mere business like level."

I had suspected Holmes would say something of the sort, so that particular tirade fell upon stony ground. Besides, the warning came too late.

**Holmes' P.O.V.**

I was concerned that Watson had fallen for Miss Bryce, as she was the object of another's desires. And who knew that person better than I? It was myself who drew pleasure from her sylph's form, her graceful mien. But I was wont to disguise my true feelings, they were indeed, shameful, and, furthermore, got in the way of my professionalism. Besides, I had made myself quite clear many years ago, that I was not even remotely interested in the opposite sex. I was unused to thinking sweet sentiments; indeed, to me, they were the stuff of nightmares.

_*I wanted this to describe Holmes' feelings, but I wanted it to be short, and poignant, all about him battling his personal demons._


	2. Personal Demons

**WAtson's P.O.V.**

"I am glad you came." Tears fell, unchecked, onto the simple black muslin mourning gown. A handkerchief was offered, and most gratefully received.

"I am so dreadfully sorry, gentlemen, but it has all come as a bit of a shock. Both of my parents, within a week, killed in exactly the same, gruesome way." She shuddered. Holmes adopted his most soothing tone of voice.

"I know this must be hard for you, but you must try to cope, for we don't want the newspapers involved now, do we?" She shook her head, with a bemused expression apon her fascinating physiognomy. He tried in vain to console her also, but she was disconsolate. she didn't notice as he took my shoulder in a tight grip.

"Watson," he murmured, drawing me aside,"Look after her, for I am unable to; you see, I am travelling post haste to Pitsea. At nine tomight, return to the public house, and request the use of two rooms, as well as a sitting room. With any luck, I shall be there already, ordering our supper."

"Of course." I eyed the lady warily, who was consumed with grief, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

"But, Homes, why Pitsea?"

"She was detained there while the murder was committed, Watson. That man, Blackwood, might point us in the direction."

I nodded.

"And Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Be on your guard. There is danger afoot."(1) My friend snuck a revolver into my pocket, whilst sneaking a covert glance at Miss Bryce, who was drenching his handkerchief with a deluge of tears. He swept out of the door, as Miss Bryce looked up and gave me a questioning glance.

"He has gone to speak to the officer in charge of these affairs." I lied glibly. I offered my own handkerchief to Miss Bryce, and smiled at her gently.

The evening passed quickly, quietly, and without incident. Miss Bryce, to me, at least, was a true beauty, and very vivacious, pleinte la vie, as the French would say, even in her state of mourning, and her eyes a watery red. She retired early, and so, by half past nine, Holmes and I were supping at the public house. Holmes, I could tell, was in a deep state of cogitation. I knew better than most to wait, to bide my time, Holmes could be trusted to reveal all in due course.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know, dear fellow, I believe that you are quite mistaken in labelling me a so-called 'automaton'."

I did not know what had incurred this absurd colloquialism. I was silent; Holmes continued.

"And I believe I must retract my misogynistic views."

"Holmes," I spluttered, "Do you mean to say...?"

"That I am in love?" Holmes tossed his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

"Goodness me no, what a preposterous notion! I simply implied that I have been rather prejudiced against the fairer sex over the bygone years, and I feel rather apologetic about it all now. I suppose I regret it."

"I am certainly relieved, to say the least, Holmes." I chuckled.

_* (1) This is one of Holmes' key phrases, I simply __had__ to add it to the story._


	3. A State Of Confusion

We spent the night in quiet reflection of the case so far, staying up rather late, retiring even later. I woke the next day, to find Holmes sitting in the chintz armchair, which was adjacent to my bed.

"I was wondering when you would awake, Watson," he remarked casually. The clock on the mantle read seven thirty anti-meridian.

"A little early, is it not, Holmes? We only retired at one."

He did not reply, but puffed away on that infernal pipe, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

"Be ready in ten minutes, Watson. We need to pay Miss Bryce a little visit." He marched out, and I was left, feeling, and no doubt, looking, bewildered. I was dressed within half the time allotted, and, after a quick breakfast of tea and toast, we left for Mis Bryce's humble yet cosy cottage. Holmes, I could see, was in a considerable state of agitation, which I knew to be his way of saying 'he was on the scent', as it were.

A scene of utter devastation met our eyes. The door had been ripped off it's hinges, and the windows had been smashed. I was horrified.

"What a block-headed fool I have been!" Cried Holmes. "If I could have but foreseen this!" He dropped his head into his hands, his anger dissipating, adopting now a sorrowful air, his voice almost a plaintive wail. "Alas, it is too late. She has gone."

"Where?! Holmes, for God's sake man, what has happened?!" His sorrow, and my frenzy were, indeed, a bad coupling. He looked at me mournfully. My state of frenzy was not un-called for, certainly, I was terrified for Miss Bryce.

"They scoundrels," he rallied, lifting his head up. "They must have carried her off." Holmes seemed to know much more than I, perhaps even more than Miss Bryce herself did.

Holmes crept stealthily inside; I followed. The inside of the cottage was a whole lot worse than the exterior. Tables overturned, books ripped, strewn across the floor, stuffing spewing out of the slashed chairs, smashed glass. There was a hardly a clean part of the floor to place one's foot. Glass crunched, and paper crinkled underfoot.

"Dear, dear, what have we got here?"

"Holmes, look!" There was a mark on the wall, surrounded by a damp patch.

"Hmm. This case gets curiouser and curiouser, not to mention nastier and nastier." Holmes touched the mark, and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb.

"Blood. watson, your hypothesis?"

"The villian who was trying to kidnap Miss Bryce through something at her in order to subdue her? Undoubtedly she would be trying to escape his grip." I shuddered at the thought.

"Good. But completely erroneous. No, no, Miss Bryce threw it at her late night visitor, in order to elude capture, any one would, being visibly weaker than him, she seized what she could. She was standing by the door to the stairs. She was woken by his entering. She crept down the stairs, and threw open the door. He drew a pistol, she threw the pitcher at him, which was sitting on the sideboard next to her, it cut his head. He drew a pistol; she was suddenly more compliant then, for there is no sign of a struggle. He gripped her by throat, and hit her over the head with the pistol. He was a gangly fellow, not under six feet. Look how high the mark is. He then carried her into a waiting hansom, leaving an accomplice to demolish her decor as a further insult to her honest family name. The mark is fresh still, you see how the blood has not discoloured? This occured between five and seven this morning, no doubt about it."

As ever, I was astonished at Holmes' reasoning, his calm, collectiveness, his deductions. As to Miss Bryce, one could only hope and pray. I had faith in Holmes, though his perception seemed somehow dimmed. I worried that he still took cocaine; was he still suffering the after-effects of the abominable drug?

_* Notes_

_I know there was great controversy about Holmes being a sexual invert, but isn't this a site that thrives on the 'What-ifs' and the 'If-only's'? __What if__ Holmes was capable of love, __What if__ he found that special someone? __If only__ Sir A.C.D. could explain Holmes' sexuality in more detail. _

Holmes' P.O.V.

Feelings had clouded my unique mind. I was incapable of shunting my love for Miss Bryce aside, at least until my investigation was concluded. Curious things, sentiments! My mind was too damned slow for my liking, and Miss Bryce was just an added annoyance, whom I couldn't extricate from the intricate folds of my grey matter. I had absolutely no idea where the scoundrels had taken her, no clue at all.


	4. The Chase

Watson's P.O.V.

We took a cab to Pitsea in the end. It took Holmes a few days of frenzied thought, and numerous meetings with Lestrade to arrive at the denouement. My companion had donned a clergyman's garb, and his face was a mask of wrinkles. He reminded me of the first time he had worn this disguise, in The Scandal In Bohemia, and, as I told him this, he smiled distractedly.

"Good. That was the expression I had hoped to give. Nobody would look twice at an old man of the clergy asking questions. As Miss Adler said; who would suspect such a poor, old clergyman?"

"Holmes?" I began tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Never mind..." I trailed off. The idea that Miss Adler had caprtured Holmes' heart was preposterous. He could have won her over, had he attampted it. I dismissed the idea as ludicrous, and installed myself looking out the hansom window's.

The journey was silent after that. It took but twenty minutes, after which Holmes sprang from the hansom, his grey eyes glinting like knives. His manic energy was disconcerting. He offered no explanation, nor did I ask for one. He turned to me.

"If you had kidnapped someone, where would you imprison them?"

"Some sort of disused warehouse?"

"Or a farm. Precisely!"

"Are there any in the area?"

"Of course there are. Where there are people there are disused buildings."

"But what gives you that idea? How do you know it is a farm?"

whipped out his pocket book, and showed me a fibre. It seemed to me to be from a working class man's jacket, particularly popular with tillers-of-the-land. A clump of what looked like mud stuck to it.

"A typical farmer's jacket, and the mud is actually fertilizer. This man came from a farm."

"How do you propose to find an abandoned farm?" I questioned, bewildered.

"A public house, of course! A few discreet enquiries, et voila! Miss Bryce saved, and the felons captured in one fell swoop."


	5. A Close Call

Evelyn struggled against the tight bonds that tied her to the chair, and wished fervently that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson would come to her rescue. A vain notion perhaps, but she clung to it like a drowning man would cling to driftwood. She floated in and out of consciousness, sick through inanitation. She had been subjected to cruel and merciless beatings, and her peignoir; now, a dull, tattered grey cloth, was covered in blood. Her hair hung in limp strands, matted, and tangled. Evelyn was chilled to the bone, and her head pounded with a ferocity she had never before encountered, nor believed possible. Blurred images moved in the half darkness, coming ever closer. It was as if in a bad dream, where evil spirits ruled. She, in a state of delirium, was only vaguely aware of hands tugging at her bodice, tearing the muslin. Feebly, she tried to stop them, but, but she was too weak, and they were two, full grown men, too strong to be put off by her hoarse protests. She was untied, and pushed roughly to the cold, hard, damp floor.

With cries of triumph, they were apon her, ripping her gown with greedy, scrabbling hands, and sick, twisted minds. She cried out, scared and shivering. They had torn her corset, her milk white skin indecently exposed. She screamed, flailing her head from side to side, in a desperate bid to avoid having a crude gag made of cotton shoved in her mouth once again, hoping that someone would hear her, save her. Then there came the sound of two pairs of feet pounding down the steps to the cellar, where she lay at the mercy of these two cretins. Or was she merely dreaming, imagining, hallucinating? No, she was certain of it. The door burst open, and light from a lantern spilled through. There stood a very tall, lanky man, and a shorter, plumper man. She could have fainted with relief, indeed, she was close to it anyway. The men atop her scrambled off, and dragged her to her feet, drawing pistols, and pointing them at her head. Adrenaline coursed through her, influencing her like a drug, giving her the strength to do what she needed to do.


	6. Confrontations

Watson's P.O.V.

"Drop the guns or she gets it," came the rough voice. Holmes nodded at me, and slowly, we lowered our revolvers to the damp ground. Miss Bryce stood between the two brutes. I was painfully aware of what would have happened had we come any later. She showed no fear, but Holmes and I were able to see her terror.

"Gentlemen, is this really necessary?"

Miss Bryce clung to her ripped gown, desperately trying to cover her indecency. I averted my eyes, and looked instead at her kidnappers. She was still donning her nightgown, and it hung limply from her emaciated frame, the pure white now a dull grey.

Before I, or Holmes knew it, or could even react, Miss Bryce's arm shot out and struck one of the villians. He fell to the floor, knocked unconscious by the force of the blow. A shot rang out in the- until now- silent cellar, echoing loudly. Miss Bryce fell to the ground, and Holmes delt her assailant a hefty blow. He crumpled up and fell, laying next to his accomplice. We rushed over to Miss Bryce's side. Holmes wrapped his overcoat around her, and covered her nakedness. I found her pulse. It was faint and erratic; but a pulse nonetheless.

"Watson, quickly, take her back to the cottage. She needs urgent medical attention. I shall wait here for Lestrade."


End file.
